The spacious firmament on nigh,With all the blue ethereal sky,And spangled heavens, a shining frame,Their great Original proclaim.Forever singing, as they shine,The hand that made us is divine. AddisonOde. The Spacious Firmament on High.

The sad and solemn night Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires; The glorious host of light Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires;All through her silent watches, gliding slow,Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go. BryantHymn to the North Star.

The number is certainly the cause. The apparent disorder augments the grandeur, for the appearance of care is highly contrary to our ideas of magnificence. Besides, the stars lie in such apparent confusion, as makes it impossible on ordinary occasions to reckon them. This gives them the advantage of a sort of infinity. BurkeOn the Sublime and the Beautiful. Magnificence.

Why, who shall talk of shrines, of sceptres riven? It is too sad to think on what we are, When from its height afarA world sinks thus; and yon majestic Heaven Shines not the less for that one vanishd star! Felicia D. HemansThe Lost Pleiad.

The night is calm and cloudless, And still as still can be,And the stars come forth to listen To the music of the sea.They gather, and gather, and gather, Until they crowd the sky,And listen, in breathless silence, To the solemn litany. LongfellowChristus. The Golden Legend. Pt. V.

Look how the floor of heavenIs thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:Theres not the smallest orb which thou beholdstBut in his motion like an angel sings,Still quiring to the young-eyd cherubins:Such harmony is in immortal souls;But whilst this muddy vesture of decayDoth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.Merchant of Venice. Act V. Sc. 1. L. 58. (Pattens in Folio.)

She saw the snowy poles and moons of Mars, That marvellous field of drifted lightIn mid Orion, and the married stars TennysonPalace of Art. Unfinished lines withdrawn from later editions. Appears in footnote to Ed. of 1833.

You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyesMore by your number than your light; You common people of the skies, What are you when the moon shall rise? Sir Henry WottonOn His Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia. (Sun in some editions.)

Who rounded in his palm these spacious orbs * * * * * *Numerous as gliterring gems of morning dew,Or sparks from populous cities in a blaze,And set the bosom of old night on fire. YoungNight Thoughts. Night IX. L. 1,260.